I'll Come Home
by Ciggie Stardust
Summary: AU. Mafalda 'Kitten' Capone follows her brothers out to Chicago, and gets caught up in the fight for Cicero when she starts working over on the Northside. Rated K for language.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

"Mafalda, I swear to God."

Mafalda 'Kitten' Capone reluctantly ate her crusts. She wouldn't have if it had been Ralph annoyed at her. Sixteen years had taught her that Ralph was a big ole stick-in-the-mud. If Frank admonished her though, it was a big deal. He used her real name and everything.

"You pay for it, you eat it. You know what Papa would have said."

She swallowed some milk before answering. "Yeah, I know."

Coffee would have been better with her lunch, but Ralph had muttered about it, and Frank had shrugged, so she had to drink stupid milk. Like a baby.

Alphonse had argued with Ralph and Frank when they supported her choice to go to Chicago. He said that she was too young, needed guidance. Ralph and Frank had argued back that John, Albert, and Matthew were all married off with kids, and wanted nothing to do with a drop-out smart-mouth. Alphonse could straighten her out. She was always a bit scared of Alphonse.

She had another brother, James, but he was never mentioned in family conversations. He did what he did and there was no going back.

"I need water."

Ralph sniffed and turned a page of the newspaper. On the front page there was something about some mook called Hoover becoming the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. "You got legs – get it yourself."

"I don't know where to get it from."

"Then _find it._"

"C'mon Kitten, let's go for a walk."

Frank got up, winked. Took her by her arm.

[break]

Apparently Frank had named her before she'd even learned to talk. A colicky baby, she'd cried all the time. But her cry had been thin and reedy, and Frank had compared her to a kitten.

"Just like a kitten, ma! Just a little kit, ain't you baby?"

The whole family had laughed, and it had been Kitten and Frank together ever since. He was nine years older, but still made time for her. Matthew was closer in age, but once Matthew had discovered girls at 13, Kitten had once again been left alone on the baseball field. Until Frank hopped over the fence, grinning and holding a mitt.

Frank had taught her to roughhouse in case anyone picked on her at school, which happened often because she was an Italian and shorter than most. He'd buy her favourite pulp novels about war and adventure. They'd go out for ice cream sodas together, and Frank always helped her wash up whenever she baked something in the kitchen (and got first dibs at the cake mix bowl).

Kitten tried to be good to Frank, too. She'd buy him his cigarettes when he was busy playing pool, and brushed down his suits. Sundays she'd help wash his car after church, and then they'd go out for drives together. Sometimes they'd stop for a picnic, or practice shooting at cans. And of course, Frank always consulted her about the girls he courted. (And always laughed at her when she'd grump that the girl wasn't good enough, as that's what she said about every girl).

Frank was her whole world.

"What are you mooning about? Thinking about all those Chicago boys?"

"NO. Idiot."

Frank just smiled to himself.

They made their way through the train, Kitten always peeking in at the other passengers in the carriages. The three of them were making their way to Chicago in the middle of the day, with the businessmen and families. Less suspicious than coming at night, Alphonse had said, less chance of the police taking notice.

Kitten heard vague details about what her eldest brother did, and it didn't surprise her. He'd always been violent and headstrong. When she was still in grade school he'd come home with his face shred up from a bottle attack – instead of reassuring her he'd told her to shut the hell up and grab another towel.

Nobody had gone to the police about it – _omerta_.

He was always 'Alphonse' to her – never Al, like the rest of her siblings called him. Or 'Snorky', which Frank called him (the only one who ever could). Ralph, whose own family was coming down to Illinois later, often talked with Alphonse about her nephew, Sonny. Kitten knew her nephew was deaf, and that she had to be really careful around him. She also had to be careful about what she said to Mae, Al's wife, who either didn't know or didn't want to know about his whores. Poor Mae.

Kitten had never had a boyfriend, and never wanted one. No boys were good enough. At least not in Brooklyn. They were all pomade-hair punks, and she could lick every last one of 'em in a fight.

"You sure Alphonse is okay with us staying at his house?" She asked Frank as they collected a water jug from the porter's carriage. She wasn't sure if they were allowed to do that, but the porter was gone, and Frank didn't care.

"Sure, bet he'd be glad for the company."

"Maybe you and Ralph's company."

"Yours too."

Kitten shrugged.

"Well look. If he doesn't, I'll make him. And you can help Mae out in the kitchen. Bake Snork one of your cakes, if you have to move out, that's it, no more cookies for the czar of Chicago."

She laughed. Frank leaned towards her conspiratorially.

"You know he's gotten fat, right?"

"No!" Kitten clapped her hands over her mouth.

"Oh yeah. Alphonse is as fat as that old pug dog that used to sit outside Berman's motor shop."

Kitten couldn't help it – she burst out laughing, and every time she locked eyes with Frank she'd start up again.

"What are you cackling about?" Ralph grunted when they came back to the car.

"Al's got fat."

"… What?"


	2. Chapter 2

"So that street is ours, until this point. Then it belongs to the Northsiders. That area there is neutral, but I wouldn't want to go there because Nails Morton is cosy with O'Banion…"

The sunlight was streaming through the cathouse window, and Kitten was struggling to stay awake and listen to old Johnny Torrio.

"And then Kilgubbin of course belongs to the Northside, and it's a shithole anyway, so you don't wanna go there…"

Kitten smiled, and sipped some coffee. She liked Johnny Torrio. Reminded her of her Nonno. Well - if her Nonno had run a criminal empire.

It was coming up to the end of her first week in Chicago. Most of the week she'd stayed at her new home, tried to learn how the family dynamic worked.

In the daylight hours, Mae's jobs were cleaning, shopping, and taking Sonny to school or church. Kitten was expected to stay at home and help, but she mostly slept, or went to the corner store to buy up big on _Vogue_ magazines and wine gums. Mae let her get away with it because Kitten was an excellent cook, and at least helped in the kitchen when it was time to prepare dinner.

Because at night, the men would invade the house.

"And so that Irish prick, thinks he can just waltz around with some big goon and –"

"I mean, the wife is always at me, 'Ralphie, when we gonna come live with you, huh?' I mean, it's been a week –"

"Hey Kitten, be a good girl and grab me a cold one from the ice box."

Kitten obliged, and kissed Frank's forehead.

"Thanks sweetheart."

He cracked open his beer, patted her lightly on the hip. Mae looked like she was going to say something, but couldn't because Alphonse started talking to her about how much coriander was in the sauce, because Sonny didn't like coriander.

"It's okay, I made a separate pot for Sonny."

Alphonse squinted at her – like he could never quite believe she was there, remember who she was. She had only been twelve when he'd moved out to Chicago.

"Oh. Yeah, thanks Mafalda."

He went to turn away.

"You can call me Kitten. If you want."

She shrunk back in regret, as at first she thought he was mad, but then he smiled crookedly.

"Oh yeah, sure. Kitten. Hell, ain't called you that since we were kids. Ok."

He ruffled her hair and then lumbered off to join Ralph and Frank as they crowded in the living room, talking business, drinking beer, and listening to baseball on the radio.

She remained in the kitchen with Mae, preparing the table. Sonny was sitting in the corner, knees up to his chest, reading one of Kitten's old books.

At first she hadn't known what to think of Sonny – he was shy, and would just peek at her as she read magazines in her room. Slowly they'd adjusted to each other. Sonny would sit on her bed after school, and help finish off her packet of wine gums, reading _Vogue_ over her shoulder. Sometimes he would touch her hair, fascinated – it was jet black compared to Mae's red.

On the third day, Wednesday, Kitten had given him a book, one she figured he could read easily. It had been one of her early books, _Peter Pan_. By that night, Friday, he was almost finished.

She crouched down, and softly touched his head to make him look up. The only sign language she knew was the closed fist shake to indicate 'yes?' But it was enough. Sonny smiled back, and nodded his fist – yes.

"Okay fellas, dinner is ready."

Mae resignedly started ladling spaghetti puttanesca into bowls, and Kitten raced around setting down garlic bread and pots of powdered parmesan.

"I wanna go out somewhere tomorrow."

"You _want _to go out tomorrow. And where you should go is back to school."

"Ah, c'mon Snork, she can read, she can write, what else is there?"

"_Don't call me that_. And there's plenty more! She gotta learn how to type, gotta get a job –"

"Gotta speak well, amirite?"

Kitten wanted to laugh at Frank's wisecracks, but Alphonse's neck was going red.

"Mafalda can cook well," Mae offered. "There's a tiramisu for dessert. Al, maybe she could help out, at your restaurant."

Alphonse carefully ground some black pepper onto his pasta, thinking. Ralph looked nervous. Frank and Kitten were delighted at his discomfort.

"Yeah. Sure. School's for suckers, I dropped outta school when I was a kid and now I'm a businessman. You go on out tomorrow with me and the boys… to the restaurant. We'll find you something, okay?"

And now here she was, at a cathouse, with Johnny Torrio of all people telling her where to go when she looked for work at _actual _restaurants and bakeries.

"So…" Torrio reached into his pocket, pulled out a pen, and outlined the Southsiders' territory. "That's where you go for a job."

Kitten bit her tongue. Jesus Christ. He'd had a pen… ALL THIS TIME.

"Thanks Mr. Torrio, it's appreciated."

She took the map, got up, and went to find Frank. He was chatting to one of the whores, at the piano. Kitten glared at her until she left.

"Now Mafalda, that was rude," Frank said quietly.

"Who cares."

"I care. Those girls get enough grief without you ridin' on their back."

"I'm not the one riding them, Alphonse is."

"This about Mae and Sonny?"

"…"

"Look, Al, he does what he wants for a start. Okay? You wanna change that, be my guest. And you think these girls could refuse their boss?"

"… No."

"Nope. Not without getting tossed out onna the street, I'll tell you that much."

"He wouldn't hurt them, would he?"

"No, no, Al likes women, he ain't that guy. But he's the only thing standing between them and nothing, understand?"

"Yeah. I guess. I just feel bad for Mae though, she's real nice."

"I know honey, but no news is good news, okay?"

Kitten shrugged. Frank reached over and brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles, expecting her to smile. She didn't.

"You don't sleep with them though, do you?"

Frank hesitated. Kitten ran out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"Can you not smoke here?"

"Can you suck my dick?"

Kitten sneered at the barber until he went back inside. She rested against the pole, took another drag.

She looked across the street, where some big mook was rapping on some other mook's door. The guy opened the door, then the bigger mook clocked him one, saying something about O'Banion sending his regards.

As the big mook walked off, Kitten watched him. O'Banion. The name rang a bell. Alphonse was always pissing and moaning about him. Some mick that didn't respect the boundaries.

Well, fuck the boundaries. Fuck it all. Let the boys play with the whores, she was off to find some real action.

She began to follow the big mook over to the Northside.

[break]

"So whaddya think?"

Dean O'Banion, Northside gang boss and local florist, held up two orchids for his deputy, Hymie Weiss, to inspect. Hymie shrugged.

"They're good."

"Yes, I _know _they're good, but which colour is best for the bouquet? The orange orchid compliments the hydrangeas, but the purple one brings out the foliage better."

"Which colour would Viola like best?"

"Her favourite colour is blue."

"Purple's kinda blue."

Dean shrugged, and threw them both away.

"Fuck it – I'll go with the Morning Glory, as I originally planned."

He'd just applied the finishing touches to his anniversary bouquet when 'George Mueller', his shop assistant/strong-arm man, walked in.

"Mr. O'Banion. Your deliveries are done."

Dean and Hymie smirked.

"Good work, Mueller. Get back to cutting up roses, you'll get your pay at the end of the day."

"Very good sir." George, head down, went to his station, and dutifully put his apron on.

"I'll go mind the shop," Hymie offered.

The two men left in the greenhouse worked in silence, Dean preoccupied with anniversary plans, George thinking about being anywhere else.

CRASH!

"Come back here you little shit –"

Dean bolted to the shop at the sounds of trouble, George close behind. Hymie had cornered Kitten, and was twisting her arm behind her back. It wasn't easy – Kitten was kicking backwards, slamming her heels into his shins with all her might.

"HYMIE! That's a girl for gosh sakes!" Dean was aghast. He was many things, but a woman abuser he was not. (Or a blasphemer).

"She was trying to steal some roses."

"Bullshit, I was just looking at them!"

"Just let her go, Hymie."

Hymie did so reluctantly. George, thinking ahead, guarded the door.

"I was just looking at them."

Dean walked over, and Kitten knew better than to take a swing whilst Hymie was just a hair's breadth away. Keeping his eyes on her, he stuck a hand into the pocket of her coat. A single rose, already wilting, had been stuffed in there.

"I didn't have the money for the whole bouquet. I just wanted one for my brother." At the thought of Frank, her eyes welled up. She hadn't meant them to, but it worked in her favour. Dean's demeanor softened.

"Kid, in that case, you could have just asked for a discount. Tried to strike a deal. How old are you?"

"I'm sixteen... sir."

"Name?"

"Mafalda Salvatore." Kitten was a troublemaker, but she had brains.

"Italian," Hymie noted with distaste.

"You wanna take that tone over to our old pal Drucci? Sure he'd love to hear it."

Hymie glowered.

"Kid, I don't wanna have to report you for stealing, okay? But you're gonna have to pay for that rose. And Deanie O'Banion don't tolerate thieves in his shop."

"I'll work for you then. I'm looking for a job mister, please." Kitten's heart was racing. Not only out of fear of O'Banion, but also at the prospect of being a spy for Alphonse.

"I'm afraid I've already got staff, Miss Salvatore." Dean gestured at the big mook Kitten had followed.

"Mister O'Banion… perhaps a girl would be better in the shop –"

"You'll stay right where I want you, Mueller."

The big mook didn't reply. His expression was inscrutable.

"But hey – I got contacts around here, the North Side. What are you good at? What job do you want?" Dean's voice was genial once more when addressing Kitten.

"… I make a real mean chocolate cake, mister."

[break]

"So how'd you go? Ya look tired, that's good."

Alphonse was sitting on the sofa when she got home. He'd had a few glasses of wine, and was strumming his lute. Kitten paused. She had no idea he could play music.

"So? Come on."

"Oh yeah… good. Real good. Got a job in a hotel, I make the desserts and coffees."

Kitten hoped he wouldn't ask too much more – it was late. Better to explain in the morning.

Al nodded, played a few notes.

"Is Frank still up?"

"Yeah, in his room. Everyone else has turned in."

It was late – O'Banion had got her working straight away at McGovern's Liberty Inn, one of his favourite haunts. It was his wedding anniversary, and his wife had a taste for sweets. Kitten had won them both over with a colossal red velvet cake. Stuffed in her pocket was a hundred dollar bill as well as a wilted rose.

"Okay. Thanks Alphonse."

"Al. You call me Al, y'hear?"

"Okay Al."

He leant back and closed his eyes. It was the first time she'd seen her older brother happy and at peace, and she watched him until his hands eventually stopped strumming. Once she was sure he was asleep, she went upstairs.

"Frank?"

"Yeah Kit." He rubbed his eyes. He'd been looking over Torrio's accounts by lamplight. He was wearing just slacks, a belt, and a singlet.

"I got a job today."

He smiled. "Good to hear it. Keep you out of mischief."

"I'll tell you more about it tomorrow though. It's late."

"Were you working?"

"Yeah." She went over to him. "Look, I got flour under my nails."

"So I see." Frank took her hands gently in his, inspecting them. "I'm proud of you, girl."

"Aw, you shouldn't be too proud. Not after what I did today."

"Hide a shiv in a cake? Send it to the boyfriend you got in prison already?"

She swatted his elbow as he laughed. He patted the place beside him on the bed, and she sat beside him, leaning into him. He put his papers away.

"You know what I mean."

"Well. You didn't really say anything, you just pulled stink eye and then ran out the place."

"I mean… you can do what you want."

"All I wanted was a bit of company once, when we first got here. I was at the cathouse, Al and I were knocking them back, and… yeah. I get lonely sometimes."

"You're never lonely, girls love you."

"Ah, no good girls though. And Odette was nice, but I don't know if I'll see her again."

"Odette? That was her name?"

"She was the brunette at the piano today. Sweet enough, and I feel sorry for her like I feel sorry for all those girls, but… she was paid for, y'know?"

"No, I don't know. _I_ don't sleep with whores."

This time Frank swatted her.

"Perhaps you should, you'll loosen up. Get Al to find some kid off the street to give you a good dicking."

"Oh, you're disgusting!" They giggled and wrestled together on the bed until Ralph, in the next room, hammered on the wall with his fist, and told them to 'shaddup'.

"You heard Ralphie, Captain of the Good Ship Fat Guts. Off to bed. You working tomorrow too?"

"Yeah, I gotta be there in the evenings."

"Aw, it'll be a shame having you around here, but how about after church I take you to the pictures tomorrow?"

"I'd love that."

She hugged him close, liking the feel of his body warmth, and the light sheen of sweat on his skin.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

It had been a month. Al, far from being upset with her over her job on the Northside, had been so proud he'd bought her a golden brooch as a reward for smart thinking. Frank, Ralph and Torrio had been equally impressed. Only Mae had grown cooler. Kitten suspected that perhaps she only played dumb when it came to Al's business.

Sonny had graduated from _Peter Pan _to _Treasure Island_. He was now nuts about pirates. As Kitten read her fashion magazines, he'd run over with his latest picture of a pirate ship, a parrot, or a buccaneer to show off to her.

Kitten could not only afford to look at clothes these days, but she was racking up tabs at boutiques all over town. Dean - he now insisted she call him that - had taken a shine to her, and tipped big. Hymie still hated her guts because she made him lose face (and bruised his shins), but Kitten didn't care – Hymie was just the deputy.

George seemed uneasy around her, but then George seemed uneasy around everybody, so she didn't take it personally.

That night at McGovern's Liberty Inn she waited on Dean and his wife, Viola.

"Here are your parfaits, Mr. and Mrs. O'Banion."

"C'mon Mafalda, it's Dean."

"And I am Viola. Formerly Kaniff, now an O'Banion, and yet _always _memorable."

Kitten smiled. She liked Viola, Dean's wild young wife. She liked to drink gin on the rocks and her laugh could be heard all the way across the room.

"D'you like these?" Viola held out her arm – on her wrist were two bracelets made from mother of pearl.

"They're very nice."

"Hey. Sit down. C'mon, sit down."

"I don't know –"

"Ah relax, this wise guy has eyes only for me, dontcha sweets?"

Dean beamed and stroked Viola's hair. Mafalda thought they were very cute, but they also made her sad – she wished Al was as crazy about Mae the way the O'Banion's were about each other. At least Ralph was happy again, reunited with his family. They'd moved into a brownstone next door to Al's.

"I suppose the boss won't mind."

"I'm the boss's boss – he won't," Dean smirked.

Kitten sat.

"I got these pearls after Deanie m'darling pulled off a big poker play down at The Ship."

"What's The Ship?"

"A big casino," Dean said through a mouthful of parfait. "I hold a stake in it, along with those Southside spaghetti-munchers."

Viola shrieked with laughter and signaled the waiter for more gin. Kitten smiled tersely.

"The Torrio gang?"

"Yeah." Dean waved his hand, oblivious to the offence Kitten took at his ethnic slur. "I got it after that pig Capone beat one of my guys. Old man Torrio wanted to make peace, I wanted poker chips."

"Dean's got something going on tonight, haven't you baby?"

"Ah, I don't wanna get into that –"

"No, I'd like to know," said Kitten. "Everyone's heard about you where I live, I wanna bring home a story. After I told the girls what a hero you were when you saved me, they just love hearing about you, ya know?"

Dean puffed himself up like a robin, and Kitten smiled sweetly.

"Where do you live, honey pie?"

"Kilgubbin."

"Ah, great place!"

"Isn't it just?" Kitten took a sip of water.

"Okay, okay." He leaned forward and dropped his voice. "You know Mueller?"

"George? The big guy?"

"Yeah him. He's over in Cicero as we speak, spying on the Capones. The Capones have been roughing up folks, trying to get 'em to 'vote right'. I want Mueller to tell me what he sees."

Kitten put down her water. "I see."

"Clever, isn't it?"

"I suppose…" Kitten looked straight at him. "You can learn a lot with spies around the place."

[break]

"Frank – FRANK!"

"He's in there." Mae pointed to the living room. "He got roughed up tonight."

Frank had bruises and scrapes on his face that Al was tending to with a hot towel.

"Al, you got to get him something cold!" Kitten scolded. She grabbed a clean dish towel and then went to get some ice from the ice box.

"Hey, I used hot towels when my face got fucked up, worked fine!"

"Sure did, Scarface Snork."

"Shaddup!"

Kitten shooed Al away and tenderly pressed the towel-wrapped ice to Frank's swollen eye.

"Al." Mae was in the doorway. "Can I talk to you a second?"

Al sniffed in annoyance but obliged.

"Did Mueller do this to you?"

"George? No Kit, he protected me. Coulda been worse. Why?"

Kitten relayed what she'd learned from O'Banion. Frank listened solemnly. In the kitchen, Mae and Al argued in hushed angry tones. Kitten could hear Mae say "and… it's weird, that's all."

"Expected as much. It's ok. We'll work it out."

Kitten removed the towel – the swelling was starting to look better already. She tried to listen to more from the kitchen, but it was all a swirl of angry whispers and accusations.

"How's the other side of your face?"

"Eh. Got a scratch."

"I'll take care of it then."

Kitten sat in Frank's lap, facing him. She pressed the towel to the scratch.

"THEY'RE FAMILY FOR CHRISSAKES!"

The two of them froze.

"Al –"

"THEY'RE FAMILY! FAMILY! YOU'RE TALKING OUT YOUR FUCKING ASS!"

Al stormed into the living room. He looked at them. Frank and Kitten looked back – Kitten frightened, Frank calm. Everything went still.

"Mafalda, I'll take care of this. Go to fucking bed."

"Don't swear at her, Al."

"Don't you tell me what I can or cannot do in my own fucking house!"

Kitten jumped up and headed up the stairs – Al had been fighting and drinking that night, and he was volatile. She'd overheard Ralph and his wife talking one night when she was over at theirs for dinner. They didn't think she was listening, as she was playing peek-a-boo with their young son. The word 'coke' had been tossed around. Kitten was old enough to know they weren't referring to the drink.

In the morning, Mae and Sonny moved out, to stay at Mae's mother's for a while.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

"Here's your coffee, Dean."

"Thanks honey pie. Have a seat. You had a good Sunday?"

"It was okay."

"You went to church?"

"Sure."

"Catholic?"

"Yeah."

"I attend Mass myself. At the church opposite my flower shop. It's good you know, when business gets too rough, I can go to confession."

"But you do good things, Dean. For people like me."

"… Not all the time, Mafalda."

"I went to confession today."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm having trouble, with my family."

"Aw, I'm sorry to hear that. You come by tomorrow, get some flowers. Free of charge."

"Will Hymie be there?"

"I'll kick him out around midday, you come after then."

"Okay. Will George be there?"

"Yeah, but the big galoot will be out the back, he won't bother you."

"Thanks Dean."

"You're welcome, sweet. And hey, whenever you're blue, just think of this passage from the Bible. It always brings me hope, at least. 'A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother. Proverbs 18:24'."

"… Thanks, Dean."

[break]

The next morning, Kitten was waiting at the cathouse. Al wanted to talk to her.

"He'll be out in a second." Jake Guzik sat at her table, eating a jelly donut.

"What's he doing? Fucking?"

Jake winced, and she felt a pang of remorse. She didn't like giving Jake lip – although Frank had likened Al to Berman's poor fat pug, Kitten thought Jake was a more apt comparison. He was pretty fat, and he was pretty stupid, but he was also genial and harmless.

"Sorry Jake. That was rude."

"Nah, it's okay. But he's not with a girl, he's –"

"Snorting that goddamn tootsweet!" Johnny Torrio stormed in. "Cicero is going to the polls in a week, and he's stuffing his conk with coke!"

Kitten and Jake looked away – there was no point trying to justify Al when Torrio was like this, and Al's behavior couldn't be justified sometimes anyway. Jake took a tentative bite of his jelly donut, and sweet goop splattered out the ass-end of the donut onto his shirt.

"Aw, come on."

"Come on what? What's happening?"

Al, jacket and tie off, walked into the room. He sniffed heavily. Johnny threw up his hands and left the room. Al hesitated, then spotted Kitten.

"I'll deal with you first."

"Okay Al."

Kitten meekly Al up the stairs. They went into a vacant room. Around them, Kitten could hear whores and johns going about their business, and it made her blush. Al didn't seem to give a damn – he sat heavily on the bed, and then patted the spot beside him.

"Okay kid, we gotta lot of things to talk about. First off – you got a job. And I'm proud of you. Frank used to tell me you were a lazy punk kid home in New York, but you seemed to have grown up some."

"Yeah."

"Yeah. But you gotta quit that job now."

"Why?"

"Things are getting rough around here. I don't want you ANYWHERE near O'Banion when shit goes down, y'hear?"

"Is this about Cicero?"

"Everything hinges on Cicero. That greedy jug-eared cartoon is going to come sniffing around eventually, and with the mayor in our pockets it's gonna be a goldmine. Fucking potato-gobbler."

"D – Mr O'Banion wouldn't hurt me, Al."

"Of course he wouldn't do shit to you right now idiot, because he doesn't know you're a Capone!"

"He doesn't hurt women."

"How the – what the fuck, you two have tea parties now?!"

"…"

"Je-sus CHRIST. That's it. Out. You quit today. Christ, first Frank, now O'Banion –"

"What about Frank? What have you got against me and Frank, huh?"

"You act more like lovers than brother and sister and it's FUCKED UP."

Kitten recoiled as if Al had physically slapped her. Tears welled in her eyes.

"Is that… that what you think? Mae thinks?"

Al suddenly looked uncomfortable.

"Well Kit, it's just that what with all the touching, the lap sitting –"

Kitten began to cry. Al ran his hands through his hair, and patted his top vest pocket. His vial and spoon were back in his office. Shit.

"Mafalda, come on, it's okay."

"It's not okay! Have you talked to Frank about this?"

"Not yet."

"You thought you'd go to me first because I'm the girl, right? Easier to break?"

"Nobody's trying to break you –"

"You're trying to get me to say that I fuck my own brother! That is _sick_, Alphonse."

"Well, you don't touch me like that, or Ralph! I mean, don't start doing that though. We're married."

Kitten's sobs turned into wails. Al looked around nervously.

"Now Kitten, you might want to keep it down, this is a place of business."

"Fuck you! And fuck your business!"

"Jesus, could you at least cry into a pillow?"

Kitten hurled herself onto the bed as only a sixteen year old girl could, and started to cry in earnest. Al picked up the spare pillow, and considered smothering himself with it. Minutes clicked by. Eventually Kitten's wails dried out into hoarse breaths.

"You good?"

"I wanna go home. I wanna go back to Brooklyn."

"Okay sweetie."

"With Frank." Kitten looked squarely at Al, as if daring him to challenge her. "He's my _brother_. The only one who ever gave a damn about me, the only one who was there."

"I…" Al faltered, then tried again. "Okay. I didn't get to know you well. I'm sorry. I should have been nicer to you growing up."

"You once threatened to kick my ass when I touched your baseball cards. I was _five_."

"As I SAID, I should have been nicer! Jesus. Anyway. Is that why you and Frank are so close?"

"Yeah. That's all." Kitten's eyes started watering again. "He's my whole world."

"Didn't you have any other friends back in Brooklyn?"

Kitten's silence said it all.

"Why not?"

"I just didn't seem to need them with Frank there."

"Well look, anyway, I was talking with Ralph, and we were thinking," Al cleared his throat. "Perhaps you should go with Ralph when he goes down to Atlantic City, to get some cash off our man Thompson there. Have a holiday. Also, then it'll give you time to make up your mind if you want to go back to Brooklyn or not."

Kitten gave him a tentative smile. "I hear that's a fun place."

"It's fun alright." A grin spread across Al's face as he thought about Margate Sands.

"Okay then. Ralph leaves Monday, right?"

"Yep. Hop on that train with him, I'll give you some money to blow on cotton candy and roller coasters."

"Thanks Al."

To her surprise, he leaned over and hugged her tight. She hugged him back. He smelled of tobacco and the sour sweat of worry, and yet his arms strong and warm.

[break]

"Hey Frank."

"Hey you." Frank moved his legs so that she could sit on the sofa with him, but instead she chose to sit on the armchair. A look of sadness and understanding passed over his face.

"Bit too grown up for sofa cuddles, huh?"

"Apparently, yeah."

"You look tired, Kitten."

"I told Dean and Viola I couldn't work at the McGovern Liberty Inn anymore, and they were kinda upset. I said it was because my family wanted me to go back to school. They told me to sit with them, shared their peanut brittle icecream, and Viola let me have a splash of gin with my coffee."

"What was that like?"

Kitten shrugged. "Okay."

Frank got up and went to the ice box. He got out two beers, and handed one to Kitten after he'd popped the top off.

"Aw, Frank, I can't have this."

"Yeah you can. Ralph told me you're going with him to Atlantic City. Your first holiday."

"I'll probably have to hang around Ralph though."

"Nah. Go alone to see the sights. Nobody will hurt you in Atlantic City, not if you drop the name Capone. And if you can beat up losers in Brooklyn you can beat up mooks on the Boardwalk."

Kitten snorted, and accidentally had beer go up her nose. She coughed and sneezed.

"Ah, you'll get used to it."

"It's pretty good."

"I've always preferred it to wine. You know that?"

"No."

"Now you do. And here I was thinking you knew everything about me."

"I know you're a jerk."

"You're the queen of jerks, so shut your cakehole, jerk."

"You jerk-off all the jerks in Jerktown."

"Meh," Frank waved his hand airily at her, and drank more beer. Kitten smiled – she'd won.

"What'll you be doing when I'm in Atlantic City?"

"Ah, going to the polls. Get the voters to vote right. Get me some two-by-fours, it'll be alright."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Me, Al, we're running the show. George Mueller has been strong-armed into doing stuff for us too."

Kitten started to feel nauseous and tense.

"I don't trust George."

"Kitten, he's a pusharound. Poor sap, looks at me like I'm his friend or something. It will be fine."

"Mr. Torrio was worried about Cicero."

"Ah, he's always worrying about this and that. And he's right to be cautious, but we're on the case. I spent all day going through where the polling booths are going to be, how many men we need… bribing the local cops. You wait, Kitten. You'll come home, stuffed with saltwater taffy, but the sweetest thing will be the Capone family ruling the Southside _and _Cicero."

He smiled at her and raised his beer to a toast, but Kitten still felt sick. Frank was never going to go back to Brooklyn.

"What's the matter, Kitten?"

"I just… I just want you to be careful, Frank. Be careful, and promise me that."

This time she did go over to him, let him draw her close to his chest, and lightly rest his chin on her hair.

"I'll be careful, sweet one. I'll come home."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Ralph and Kitten had worked it out on the train – Ralph would be going out for a steak, Kitten would go to the Onyx Club, which was ruled over by Thompson and a guy Al had worked with, Chalky White. She'd be safe as houses. Kitten had never been to a jazz club and was practically bouncing in her seat all the way to Atlantic City.

"And so look, the station food, it gives me the runs…"

Kitten couldn't help but giggle as she whooshed by Ralph and Thompson's delivery man, some old German fellow. Ralph had never had the trots in his life, he had iron guts. The real reason he wanted a steak was because his wife was always on his case for eating too much red meat, and he wanted a night off.

"Hi, my name is Kit – I mean, my name is Mafalda Capone, and I had a seat down the very front! It was organized with Mr Thompson!"

The maître de nodded, as perfunctory as Kitten was excited. He escorted her to the front tables. To her left was a tall, solemn black man, dressed in an expensive suit. He had a scar that split his face, and Kitten's heart leaped as she realized that it was Chalky White, the owner, just as Al had described him. She stared, but he paid no attention – he was enraptured by the beautiful singer on stage.

She looked to her right – there were two men who were also sharply dressed, who she guessed to be Jewish. One of them, the older man, couldn't concentrate. He was always looking at his watch, as if he had somewhere better to be. The younger man, though, was politely watching the performance, until he caught her looking. His smile was so wide that it made the corners of his eyes crinkle, and Kitten felt as if the air in the room had risen several degrees.

"Miss? A drink?"

"Oh yes." Kitten picked up the menu, resisting the urge to fan herself with it. "Uh… I'll have a beer. Do you have any beer?"

"No, miss. I will remind you that this is a first class establishment."

Kitten could feel Mr. White looking at her out the corner of his eye, and now the room felt sweltering. But not in a good way.

"Um, then okay, I'll just have a gin."

"Just a gin? You did not want a cocktail?"

The names of the cocktails could have been written in Greek for all the good it did Kitten.

"No no, a gin will be fine." Kitten tried to muster some of Viola's courage. "Why, I think gin on the rocks is a fine thing, sir, quite fine!"

The younger Jewish man tried hard to smother his short bark of laughter, but Kitten still heard it. Chalky had gone back to looking at the singer. The older Jewish man had missed it all, still antsy about the time.

Kitten suddenly hated everything about the club, and only gave the singer a half-hearted clap when she finished her song, even though truthfully, she was very, very good.

"Is anyone sitting here?"

It was the younger Jewish man.

"No, but you can't."

"I just wanted to come over here and apologise, my laughter had no malicious intent whatsoever behind it."

"They why did you laugh?"

"I just thought it was sweet – you sounded like you were in a school play."

"Well I'm not in school, mister. You're short for a wiseguy – are _you _in school?"

Rather than take offense, he smiled wider.

"No miss, I am not. My name is Meyer Lansky, I am a businessman from New York."

"What business are you in?"

The maître de came back with her glass of gin and ice. Meyer pointed at it.

"Oh."

As they'd been talking, on stage the singer, Daughter Maitland, had been bantering with her pianist, seguing into the next song. The lights went down again. Daughter started to sing a sad song about a woman wondering if she'd ever see her lover again.

"Meyer?"

"Mm?"

"You can sit here, if you want," Kitten said quietly, changing her mind.

"Thank you, Miss…?"

"Mafalda Capone."

"I'm guessing related to Alphonse?"

"He's my brother."

"I see. He's making quite a name for himself out there in Illinois."

"Yeah, he's running things now. Along with my other brothers, Frank and Ralph."

"And what brings Miss Mafalda Capone to Atlantic City?"

"A holiday." Kitten decided not to mention Cicero to this relative stranger. "You?"

"Myself and my associate, Mr. Rothstein," Meyer gestured to the older man, who was once again bored and impatient, "are going to be meeting with Mr. Thompson to discuss a business proposition."

"What proposition?"

Meyer smiled down at his folded hands.

"Oh. _Omerta_."

"I'm afraid so, miss."

"You speak Italian?"

"Not fluently, but I understand enough."

"Whereabouts are you from in New York?"

"Lower East Side. You, I'm guessing Brooklyn."

"Yeah, I haven't got a Chicago accent yet. I don't want one, either."

"Not happy with Chicago?"

"It doesn't feel like home right now. Brooklyn felt like home."

"There's no city like New York."

They shared a glance. Kitten took a drink of her gin. It was strange and yet not entirely unpleasant talking with a man she wasn't related to, or married. And yet…

"I guess you've got a nice lady back in New York."

"No. I don't find many nice ladies in my line of work."

"But you're good at talking to ladies."

"Because I like them. I'd say you're quite good at talking to men."

"I have seven brothers, and my last boss was also a ma – no, sorry, six brothers. I mean, my seventh brother is still alive, he's just not my brother anymore."

"I'm sorry."

Kitten shrugged. "I don't really remember much about him. He left us to go to Nebraska. Changed his name… Al remembers him, and Frank. But it doesn't matter. He doesn't matter to us anymore."

"Nebraska." Meyer said it with such a tone of distaste that Kitten couldn't help but smile again. "I suppose it won't hurt to tell you that the business proposition concerns Florida. Tampa, to be exact."

"What's in Tampa?"

"Other than business… I honestly don't know. Alligators, perhaps."

"Gross."

"I personally find them to be more terrifying than 'gross', but each to their own."

On stage, Daughter Maitland was taking her bows, to thunderous applause.

"Your boss looks pleased."

"Mr. Rothstein is my associate. But yes, he's been waiting to get to the card tables since we got here."

Looking at Rothstein, Meyer seemed apprehensive. Mr. White came over to them.

"Now it's time to go see Mr. Thompson."

"Yes, one moment please."

Mr. White left them to go over to Rothstein.

"What are you doing? In Atlantic City?"

"Drinking gin. Talking to you."

"I mean for the rest of the night."

Kitten flushed. "Now hold on mister, if my brother Frank were to hear about you trying something –"

"No no no, I mean, I'd just like to keep talking to you, but I'll be busy for the rest of the night. But I don't have to leave immediately for New York tomorrow, so I was wondering if you wanted coffee. Will you still be here next morning?"

"Oh. Yes, okay."

"Where are you staying?"

"The Ritz Carlton," Kitten said with pride. Al had splashed out on a good room for her, and gave her $200 spending money. Kitten had paid for her Lanvin dress herself though, with the 'good luck at school' bonus that Viola O'Banion had decided to give her on a whim on her last day at work. (Dean had turned pale at the amount of cash Viola had stuffed in Kitten's apron pocket, but Kitten had no complaints).

"Great. I'll meet you there at 8."

[break]

"It's 9. Last night you said -"

"Yes, I know, I apologise. I had business to attend to."

"Are you alright?"

Meyer looked agitated.

"Is it the business deal? Does your business involve alligators?"

Meyer looked dumbfounded at her, then let out a bark of laughter.

"No, Mafalda, it has nothing to do with alligators. I just exchanged words with somebody. It's not important."

"You sock them one too?"

"What?"

"You've got blood on your cuffs."

She'd seen it when Meyer had signaled the café waiter. He hurriedly tried to wipe the stains off with his handkerchief, to no avail.

"Are you alright, sir?"

"Yes, just a short black, thank you. Mafalda, I'm so sorry, I just –"

"Some mook gave you lip, so you socked him." Kitten shrugged. "It happens. Meyer, we're New Yorkers."

Meyer laughed again at that.

"You know how hard it is for people to make me laugh?"

"No, because clearly those people aren't as funny as me. And call me Kitten."

She took a big victory bite of her jelly donut.

[break]

"- and then Meyer said that I could visit, and that he knows Owney Madden and Dutch Schultz so he could take me to the Cotton Club!"

Ralph didn't respond. Kitten peeked over his newspaper. He was asleep.

"Oh, goddamnit Ralph!"

Ralph snorted, but didn't wake up. Kitten guessed he'd been hitting the bottle hard last night. As the Broadway Limited rocketed towards Chicago, she thought about what she'd tell Frank about her holiday. He didn't call last night like he said he would, but he'd probably been busy celebrating with Al after the Cicero win.

There was an announcement – five minutes until they reached the station. Kitten adjusted her hat, and checked her lipstick. She didn't often wear it, but she wanted to look nice. Her brothers had made history, after all.

"Ralph, wake up! Come on, you stupid old bear!"

She laughed away his grumblings, and grabbed her valise. The two of them stepped off the train.

"Al? Frank?"

There was nobody there to greet them.

"Do you think everything's okay? Ralph?"

"Hang on a second."

Ralph reached out, held her hand, as if she were a child again. She had to take two steps to every one he took, as he rushed through the crowd, to the paper rack. Foregoing all manners, he shoved people out the way.

"Look I just gotta see the paper, I need to know what happened in Cic – oh God. Oh God, Kitty no, baby don't look –"

Kitty's shrill scream echoed throughout the station.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

It had been six months since Frank's funeral.

"Hey Kit. Some of us girls are going out later. Want to come?"

"No thank you, not tonight." Kitten carefully washed the cooking school's utensils.

"You okay?"

"Yeah I'm okay Susie, just tired."

"Well… call me if you need."

"I will."

Kitten was the last to leave, as usual. She packed up the lemon meringue she'd made into her basket, hung up her apron, and checked the small pistol Al had given her was still shoved securely in her coat pocket. It had been his last gift after she'd left Chicago.

They still spoke – Kitten placed no blame at his feet for what had happened to Frank. He had been almost as wrecked as her when they'd lowered his coffin into the ground.

After the wake Ralph and Al got her on a train and whisked her out of Chicago as quick as possible in the dead of night. She didn't want to be there any second longer, and it wasn't safe. She hadn't had time to say goodbye to Torrio or Jake, but she didn't think they'd notice. She left a note for Mae, who had moved back in to support Al, and all of her books now belonged to Sonny. She didn't want to read about soldiers, cowboys, pirates or gunfights anymore.

When she and Al spoke, it was about different things. Her days back at school, the apartment she was living in. Al had gotten in touch with Frankie Yale, and he'd put her up somewhere nice in the Brooklyn docks – in his territory, of course. They didn't want to take any chances.

Al had mentioned the business once to her – he'd told her that in retaliation for Frank's death, he'd shot a cop. Kitten had replied numbly that who he really should have shot was the son of a bitch photographer who had splashed her dead sibling's face all over the front page. She didn't know if he'd taken her seriously, but a venomous part of her hoped he had. Her brother, her world, reduced to a death mask on _The Chicago Tribune_.

There was a sizable Irish population in Brooklyn, and a couple of months after she'd left Chicago, there were ripples and whispers that O'Banion had died. At the hands of Frankie Yale. Al's orders.

She'd cried and prayed. For Dean, Viola, Al – all of them.

And then after she just had to keep on living. She went to school, she came home, she read magazines and ate wine gums. Practiced speaking better, and walking like a lady. Sometimes she took up on Susie's offer and went out for coffee or to the pictures with some other students, but she wasn't used to having female friends, and she suspected the others felt sorry for her.

"Hey Salvatore."

"Rowr."

Salvatore was her cat, a skinny black tom. He wound his way around her ankles, and demanded food.

"Okay, okay."

She emptied a can of sardines into his bowl, then had a shower, got changed into a slip and nightgown, and started reading _Vogue_. The only other sound other than Salvatore's contented rumbles was her record, playing classical music. She'd started listening to it after Susie said it was relaxing. Usually Kitten thought Susie was full of shit, but she was onto something with the classical.

_Knock knock._

Moving as silently as possible, Kitten went to the bedroom and got her gun off of the nightstand. She then went to the door.

"Hello?"

She cocked it as Al had shown her.

"It's Meyer Lansky. Is that Mafalda Capone?"

"What do you want?"

"I just want to see you."

"Why?"

"We lost touch after Atlantic City, and today I was thinking about you."

"Thinking about me how?"

"… What?"

"You heard!"

"Jesus, Kitten, I miss you."

Kitten reached for the doorknob – hesitated.

"How did you find my apartment?"

"I phoned your brother."

"Al?"

"Yeah. He wasn't too happy, but then Ralph got on the phone and we worked it out."

Tears sprung to her eyes. So he had been listening to her on the train.

She opened the door.

"Hi."

"Hi. Can I come in?"

"Sure – you look like you could use a drink."

"Thank you."

There was a bruise swelling on Meyer's cheek, and he was sweaty and exhausted.

"Beer?"

"I like beer."

Salvatore jumped on Meyer's lap as soon as he sat down, and started pawing at Meyer's tummy and purring.

"Salvatore, shoo!"

"That's a good name for a cat."

"A good name for a bad cat!"

Salvatore stalked away, showing them his anus. They caught each other's eye and started laughing.

"I don't know how or why you make me laugh so much, but you do."

"I haven't laughed in a while, I have to say."

"… I was very sorry to hear about Frank, Mafalda."

"Thank you."

"How are you doing?"

"I'm getting through the days. I'm back at school. I shop. My brothers provide me with an allowance while I study. You?"

"Well," Meyer sipped his beer and sighed. "Tampa is… difficult."

"The alligators, huh?"

He grinned at her.

"No, the alligators aren't interested in people, they just fight each other. And the people fight each other."

"Oh."

"Mm."

They sat in silence, in their own thoughts.

"This music is nice."

"It's Stravinsky. _The Firebird_."

"What's it about?"

"I don't know. Susie – she's a student I work with – said it had something to do with freedom."

"Freedom." Meyer looked more tired than ever. "I got punched in the face today."

"No kidding. Hey, did you need ice on that?"

"Yes please."

She went to the icebox, wrapped up a bottle of lemonade in a tea towel. Pressed it lightly to his face.

"I have some lemon meringue as well, but you're not getting any until you tell me why you didn't call for months on end."

"The business heated up, and I wasn't sure if I was going to be in New York or Tampa. But today when I wasn't getting punched in the face, I was looking at my own grave."

"Jesus."

"I don't think he'd hear _my _prayers, but somebody did today." He smiled.

"You're a morbid wiseguy, you know that?"

"I have to laugh in a line of work like this. That's why I needed to see you again. I'll take you out to the Cotton Club, when you're not at school, doing… what do you do?"

"I make cakes. I mean, I'm learning to bake."

"When you're not making dessert, I'll take you out to dinner. Or do whatever you want to do."

Kitten lifted the lemonade bottle, inspected his face. The bruise was going down. His eyes looked sad, worried, and yet also kind.

"I like to go out for ice cream sodas. Go for long Sunday drives, have picnics, shoot at cans. I used to like playing catch, too. Down at the baseball diamond near Berman's motor shop."

"Why don't you play catch anymore?"

"I don't have anyone…" She stopped.

"I'd play catch with you." He grinned. "I'm pretty bad at it, but I'd give it a try."

"Well then, I have a spare mitt. It's yours now."

END. 

Thanks for reading, please review!


	8. Author's Note

Author's Note

This is a work of fiction, to state the obvious first up. Little is known about Mafalda Capone, so I took a lot of liberties with her character (for a start, her age – I bolstered it up to 16, as she would have been 12 in 1924). However, from what I did learn, she was 'the baby' of the family, and moved out to Chicago from Brooklyn with the rest of the Capones. In her adulthood she owned a bakery. She also apparently had a sharp tongue. History had her marry John Maritote, but I decided to take some creative license.

I tried to be fair to both the Southsiders and the Northsiders. And most of all I hope you enjoyed the story.


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